In the end, the offer of a picnic was too good to pass up. Chelsea fed Mr. Chips, Pinto, and the dogs, and scribbled a note for Frank. She left it on the kitchen counter.
They decided on Patagonia for a picnic, since Gary had to drop off a small cabinet he’d built for a client.
“What do you think of my new car?” Gary called as she emerged from the house. He stood in front of a dark gray Toyota hatchback.
“It’s beautiful. When did you get it?”
“Last weekend. I won’t need the van anymore since I’ll be working for someone else.”
On the drive to Patagonia, Gary glanced over at Chelsea and she saw how he happy he was. It was their last chance to have a good time together, in a string of good times. She was glad she’d decided to come.
Pete Crowley was riding along the fence that divided his place from the C.M. Tunney property when his horse shied violently.
“Come on, you old fool,” Pete said, clapping his heels into the horse’s sides.
The animal took a few steps forward and then ducked away again, his nostrils going like an old percolator. Pete stepped off and walked over to the barbed wire fence. Just beyond the fence stood a mesquite tree, and under the mesquite tree was something that looked like a bundle of rags. A sleeping transient, maybe?
As Pete approached, he realized with revulsion exactly what it was.
Gary stopped the car outside a clapboard bungalow in Patagonia. The carport was empty.
“They told me they’d be here,” Gary said, annoyed. “I’ll be back in a minute.”
Chelsea emerged from the car and stretched her legs, looking around. Patagonia, nestled in the rolling hills not far from the Mexican border, was the quintessential hometown, complete with a gazebo. She took a deep breath. Someone was burning leaves. At the door, Gary shifted his weight from one foot to the other and rang the doorbell again. Chelsea nodded to a man clipping a hedge in front of the house across the street.
Gary came back. “No one home,” he said. “I guess we can drop the cabinet off on the way back.”
He got in, and they drove out of town on a farm road, which soon turned to dirt.
“Where are we going?” Chelsea asked.
“I thought it might be nice to go look at some of the old ghost towns. You know, Harshaw, Mowry? There are a lot of trees around Mowry. We could have our picnic there.”
The road followed a dry riverbed lined by tall grass and Sycamore, scrub oak, and mesquite trees. At Harshaw, Gary and Chelsea explored an adobe shack and spent some time among the colorful graves across the road. As they left, an Hispanic family drove up.
“Probably here to tend the graves,” Gary said. Today was el Dia de los Muertos, the Day of the Dead.
They drove on to Mowry.
Gary and Chelsea didn’t meet a single car on the graded road. Gary turned onto a dirt track cutting a welt through hilly, overgrazed land. Chelsea watched the cows stepping daintily among the weeds, searching for the best-tasting grass. Then she lost sight of them as the car continued up through the trees to the ruins.
The ruins of Mowry stood on the hill, concealed by a grove of oak and pinon trees. Adobe buildings slumped in the grass, their few remaining patches of stucco smeared brown by the mud. Tall grass grew up over humps of earth, old doorways, and windows. The trees glittered darkly overhead.
They picnicked on fried chicken, fruit, potato salad, and iced tea. Afterward Chelsea found a place in the sun and enjoyed the warmth seeping into her bones. It was cold in the shade.
“This was a big gold and silver mine at the turn of the century,” Gary said. He pointed to the rocky hill above them. “See up there? That miner’s cabin? Why don’t we walk up there and take a look?”
Chelsea closed her eyes against the warm sun. “I’d like to sit here for a little while, if it’s all right with you.”
“Sure.”
“And I’d like to hear about your new job,” she added.
Gary shrugged. “Not much to tell. It’s just a job with a furniture store.” He wrapped up the remaining chicken. “It all came up pretty sudden. This guy I knew in LA—”
“You lived in Los Angeles? I didn’t know that.”
“Only a short time. Come on, let’s walk off all this food.” He scrambled to his feet and brushed the dirt off his pants. “We should probably put things away first. There are animals out here, a lot of them hungry.”
Gary turned away and began packing up. Chelsea reached for the box of plastic forks, her gaze resting on Gary’s back, the short hair curled above a sun-reddened neck.
Something had jarred her memory when he mentioned Los Angeles. As if pairing him with the city somehow brought something to the surface of her thoughts, something vaguely unsettling.
She felt as if she had known him before.
But that was impossible.
He turned to stare at her, and the feeling of déjà vu became stronger. She struggled in the murky recesses of her mind, trying to dredge up the memory.
A crush of people. The smell of sweat, earth, the odor of pot. People, green grass, a bandstand—
A rock concert.
“Something wrong?” Gary asked with an easy grin.
Chelsea shook her head. She almost had it. A rock concert, and the guy she went with was good-looking, pleasant, a nice date. But something about him had bothered her. . .
“Wait till you see the view from up there.”
He’d gone off to buy something to drink. Chelsea remembered walking through the crowd, on her way to say hello to a friend across the park. Remembered seeing her date talking to a girl. The girl had looked confused. “But I thought you were out of town,” she’d told him. “Why didn’t you call if you knew you were coming here?”
The same man.
Shorter hair, no glasses, no mustache. But the same man.
“What are you looking at?” Gary asked, his voice sharp.
“I just had a feeling that I met you before. Isn’t that funny? After all this time . . .”
Gary smiled. There was something Chelsea didn’t like about the smile; it didn’t reach his eyes. Suddenly he looked quite different from the man she knew. His eyes were blue and hard.
“Gary?” Chelsea asked nervously. “Is something wrong?”
“Who was that girl?” Chelsea had asked when he’d returned. “She seemed upset.”
“What girl?”
Gary’s face twisted into a parody of his usual friendly expression. “Wrong? No, Chelsea, nothing’s wrong. Everything’s right, as a matter of fact.” He walked over to the car, reached into the passenger side, and opened the glove compartment. “I really think we should take that walk.” He withdrew from the window, holding a gun in one hand. “Come on.”
Chelsea stared down the barrel of the gun, and suddenly everything fell into place. He was the same man, the same man from her college art class, who had lied to her about the girl at the concert. The same—
The brakes
—man, the same man and he had lied to her—
The brakes he fixed the—
He was going to kill her! Heart thumping madly, Chelsea stepped back as Gary waved the gun.
“I won’t say it again, Chelsea. Walk.”
Chelsea struggled for words. “Why?” was all she could manage.
Gary laughed. “Why? You still don’t know, do you? That’s a good one!” He grabbed her roughly and spun her in the direction of the hill. “Walk, and I’ll tell you all about it, Cousin.”
Chelsea’s mind was functioning on two levels. One level was deep, animal fear, a fear that sent the blood racketing through her veins. He was going to kill her. He was going to shoot her and leave her up here. On another level, she was looking for a way out.
Cousin. The word smashed through her consciousness, a word which was somehow important. Why had he called her cousin? Why did he want to kill her?
I’ve got to get away. I’ve got to fool him somehow. Her mind racing, Chelse
a did as she was told, striking out across the broad expanse of tall, golden grass toward the hill. They were alone here. Gary had the keys to the car. She was going to die if she didn’t find some way to get out of here.
Cousin? What did that mean?
Gary walked beside her, one hand clamped on her arm, the other holding the gun. His tone was conversational, casual, and Chelsea realized that he had been talking for a while.
Chelsea said, “You were the one who fixed the brakes.” Her eyes darted around, taking in the scene. The hills rose ahead of them. They were in a sort of small valley. The car was behind them and to the left. When they started up the hill, maybe she could—
“You haven’t been listening to a word I’ve said. Shall I repeat it for you, or can you guess?” His voice—that gentle, quiet voice.
“You were at UCLA.”
“Ah! You remember! I thought you’d probably forget I existed. After all, I wasn’t rich. Didn’t even come from a good family, as far as you knew. You weren’t too interested in getting to know me then. One date, that’s all the chance you gave me.” His grinned. “But everything turns out for the best. You didn’t even recognize me this time.”
“What are you talking about? Why did you call me ‘cousin’?”
Gary’s grip tightened. Chelsea’s senses sharpened, she could feel every blade of grass against her legs, hear the whine of bugs, see the blaze of fall color. They were striding through the long grass; it swished and rustled around them. Chelsea was aware of the sun again, warm on her back. Unbearable to think that in a few minutes she might never feel the sun again.
“Technically, I guess you’d call me your cousin once removed.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Chelsea, you can be dense. All this business about Kathleen Barrie, and you’re still clueless. Sometimes I think it’s unfair, like bagging a pet deer. Kathleen Barrie, Chelsea. She gave birth to my mother, and my mother had me. John McCord is my grandfather.”
“Kathy’s daughter was stillborn! She’s in the cemetery!” Keep him talking, even if he is talking nonsense. Maybe at the hill, maybe there she could get him off balance. It was worth a chance, it was better than standing here waiting for him to kill her.
“I didn’t expect you to believe me,” Gary was saying. “What an insult to your family, to your precious bloodline. But there was a child, Chelsea. My mother.
“No one figured on old Lucas McCord. Lucas didn’t think my grandmother was good enough for his precious son. She was a Wobbly’s daughter. So he took my mother away, farmed her out under another name. Sounds like a soap opera, doesn’t it? It even has a pay-off. Grandson of the wronged woman comes back for his inheritance, comes back for justice!”
“You’re crazy!” The first ridge was close now. There had to be a way to knock him off balance. . .
“What do you know?” Gary’s voice was harsh with anger. “You and your ivory tower—a fine McCord you turned out to be! I gave you a chance. I gave you a chance to live, you stupid bitch! But did you take it? You could have married me, you could have stayed alive. But I’m not good enough for a McCord. Just a handyman. I can just hear it, you and Fletcher laughing behind my back!”
“That’s not true—”
“Your great-uncle knows all about my mother. He doesn’t know about me yet, but he will. And whether he likes it or not, I’m still a McCord. And I’m the Only. One. Left!” He spaced the words for effect.
Chelsea knew he was crazy. His anger at her family obliterated all reason. She could tell by the tightening grip on her arm, by his voice, steadily getting higher.
Chelsea’s own pulse was slowing down. It had to; there was only so much room for fear.
“McCord had it all planned. Right down to a childless couple who had been trying to adopt for years. But he didn’t figure on an old woman’s guilty conscience. And when my mother found out . . . Can’t you walk any faster?”
Chelsea had slowed, letting her weight work for her. He was dragging her now.
“You think you’re so special you can walk through life untouched, don’t you? You people make me sick. So rich you think you can get away with anything. I’d kill you even if I didn’t stand to inherit your fortune. I’d kill you for the fun of it. I hate you, and I hate your family.” He giggled. “Except for Sydney, of course. She was a big help.”
“I don’t . . .” But suddenly she did understand. Sydney’s letter: “You won’t believe this, Chelsea, but as soon as the divorce is final, I’m getting married.”
“She told me all about you. Your likes, your dislikes, your political beliefs. I couldn’t believe my luck when she told me you were about to dump ol’ Jason.”
Sydney? Chelsea’s heart pounded. “Sydney wouldn’t—”
“Just for insurance, just in case the high and mighty Governor McCord doesn’t acknowledge me, I’ll be marrying the last of the McCords. I always hedge my bets.
“She always liked me. She was a little miffed when I left LA.” He giggled again. “I told her I was going to India on a church mission for the summer, like a good Christian.”
Had Sydney betrayed her?
“She’ll marry me. She’s plain. I should have stuck with the plain ones, they’re always grateful. But you were a challenge. And of course you’re a real McCord. But then so am I.”
Keep him talking. “But what if you’d married me? She would have known—”
“I was just a sympathetic friend. After all, she was a married woman. But things have changed, haven’t they? Hubby David wants out. Sydney’s free to follow her heart. It hit me in India, how I felt about her. I raced back when I heard she was getting a divorce, told her just what she meant to me.
“She bought it hook, line, and sinker. We’ll be united in the love of the Lord. And I’ll be such a comfort when she finds out her sister’s disappeared.” His voice was so coldly cynical, so ugly, that for a moment Chelsea lost track of what she was doing.
Concentrate!
The ridge, almost to the ridge.
“Losing her beloved sister will be a blow, of course—”
Chelsea jerked back with all her might. Gary let go of her arm to catch his balance, but toppled backward, arms wind-milling. Chelsea, prepared for the fall, ducked her shoulder and rolled down the hill. Then she was up and running toward the oak forest a few yards away.
She heard running behind her. Something slapped the tree near her head.
He was shooting at her!
Chelsea dodged into the trees. A snap and another whine, closer this time.
She ran as fast as she could, skirting the hill. Any minute now and I’ll be dead. The next shot will do it. The next shot will kill me.
Chelsea cringed at the next report, hid among the trees like an animal.
His running footsteps didn’t seem so close now. “It’s no use, Chelsea!” Gary called, his breath rasping. “I’ve got all day. No one knows where we are!”
Chelsea wanted to tell him about her note to Frank. But she needed to save her breath for running.
“You’re only postponing the inevitable!” Gary called. “I’ve got the gun!” He giggled again, his voice maniacal—high and piercing. He was crazy! “Come back, cousin, and take your medicine like a good little rich girl!”
At this point, there was no place to go but up. Chelsea scrambled up the rocky slope, trying to stay in the trees. She looked back once.
And couldn’t see him.
She clung to the dry bark of an oak, letting her breath come back. Where was he?
Silence. The silence burned a hole in the fabric of her sanity. Where was he?
If he’s close, he can hear my breathing.
Then the red-shirted figure detached itself from the oaks below. Gary strode casually through the grass, seemingly unconcerned that she might get away.
No one around for miles.
Chelsea scrabbled for a hand hold among the loose rocks and pushed up the slope.
I
’m getting mad!” Gary called, distant now. He took on a wheedling tone. “I promise I’ll kill you quick. Don’t make me mad, or it’ll go a lot worse!”
“Before you know it, I’ll be in Los Angeles, getting ready for my wedding day!” He laughed again. “There’s no way out of this one! You had your chance!”
Chelsea bolted up the hill. She lost her footing on the loose talus and slid a ways, then climbed again. He wasn’t shooting. She counted the shots Gary had already fired. Three. How many bullets were in the gun he carried? It was a revolver—six? One thing was certain, he’d have to get closer, much closer. Chelsea redoubled her efforts.
Ben opened the door to the kitchen. “Chelsea? Frank?” The house was empty; he knew it the moment he crossed under the lintel. Chelsea was gone.
He strode through the kitchen and saw the note. He ran for the truck, hoping he wasn’t too late.
“You’re making things harder on yourself!” Gary called. His voice came in scratchy gasps.
Chelsea had stopped running. She was concealed in an oak-shaded ravine partway up the mountain. Gary was far below, his red shirt a beacon. He was headed in the wrong direction, moving up the mountain slowly, methodically. He wouldn’t be coming this way for a while. Chelsea had a chance to catch her breath.
Ben made it to Patagonia in record time. He drove up and down the highway, looking for a blue van. He thought about checking out the bird sanctuary, an isolated stretch of land along the river, but decided against it. It might be isolated, but there was still a chance people could blunder in on them, and if Ben was right, Gary wouldn’t want that.
He stopped at the park near the old depot and asked the children playing there if they had seen a blue van. No such luck.
Stalemate. What should he do now? Ben thought about going to the sheriff, but what would he say? He knew that law enforcement officials wouldn’t do anything unless a crime had been committed—and by then, it would be too late.
He parked on the side of the road, his eyes following the small grid of streets up against the mountain.
Darkscope Page 33
